


when they speak of sin

by bloodinfection



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Crying, Forced Orgasm, Frottage, M/M, Masochism, Mild CBT, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Painplay, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Sex, Self-Discovery, Spanking, just some good ol' blood, mild asphyxiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24686905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodinfection/pseuds/bloodinfection
Summary: "You've been stabbed." It's more a disbelieving statement than a genuine question."Lightlystabbed, keep up, will you?" Geralt is, in fact, not keeping up. He just frowns, roughly tugging Jaskier's shirt out of his trousers, unbuttoning it right there, in sight of gods and men.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 58
Kudos: 509





	1. seams & symphonies

**Author's Note:**

> originally inspired by [this clip from brooklyn nine-nine](https://youtu.be/BrKUBzjVUTs?t=56s) but it very quickly developed a life of its own & now there's kink?? oops

He'd had a drink too many, is all.

And sometimes, when he has a drink or two more than he should, he gets—

Confrontational.

Physical.

And, yes, if the stars align - physically confrontational.

So maybe he can't quite remember the gravely insult to his own dignity—or perhaps it'd been a dig at someone else's virtue, it shall remain a mystery—but he is _certain_ that the first punch he threw in the tavern had been justified, and all the ones that followed, after they'd been chased out of the establishment.

Except the company he'd been keeping that night clearly had some hard opinions on the matter, _opposing_ opinions, and anyway, all this to say, Jaskier thinks it terribly uncouth, bringing a knife to a fist fight.

He had equipped himself with a blade of his own, just for occasions like this, but it—he'd put it suggestively with the whetting stone in Geralt's bag, so it could—get sharp. Be sharpened. Gods, is the world spinning, just a little?

No matter. He can use the dagger, after he pulls it from where it's buried, almost vertical, in his side.

So he does.

His fingers skirt clumsily around the gash, and, faintly, he can feel it pulse with the quickened drum of his heart. It doesn't—hurt, it really doesn't, except that he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it _should_ and it _will_ , and he struggles to recall any and all knowledge that he may have on stab wounds, but he comes up blank.

All the better for him, really.

The hilt is slippery with blood that stains his hands crimson, and he can barely grip it properly. The make is so shoddy, it's a small wonder the thing hadn't fallen apart when it'd sunk into him. He pulls it out in a swift motion, surprisingly decisive for how shaken he feels, and the sensation is—bizarre. Not the sharp shock of pain he expects after manoeuvring a blade out of his body, certainly.

It's only a second or two that the dagger gleams wet in the moonlight, and Jaskier almost, almost sees his reflection in the red-stained steel before it sinks into flesh once more. The man—his opponent, the twice-poxed coward—howls into the night, defeated and deflated, but Jaskier pays him little mind as he stumbles back towards the tavern door.

 _The thrill of the kill_ , he thinks, having decidedly not killed anybody. _The thrill of almost being killed_ , though that also isn't the truth, not entirely. Geralt would scoff at a mere scrape like this, perhaps even grace it with a laugh.

Jaskier snatches a half-empty bottle of vodka off a table—because it looks cool, even if he'll have to pay for the bloody thing—as he makes his way to the stairs, limping slightly. All conversation stills in his wake, until there's nothing but silence and the thrum of blood in his ears as he tries to fit the key into its lock.

It's shockingly easy to go through the motions he knows so well, only slightly altered. He strips out of his doublet ( _ruined_ ) and the roughspun chemise ( _beyond saving and not worth trying besides_ ), gathering them in a heap in his lap to prevent his trousers from getting soiled. He takes a drink from the bottle, throat burning, before he pours the vile liquid over the wound, like Geralt always has him do. It hurts, now, he realises; the sting of alcohol gives way to a constant throbbing pain, and he shuffles awkwardly in an attempt to stifle it.

It's _shockingly_ , mind-bogglingly easy to sink his teeth into the leather of one of Geralt's belts, to hum a jolly tune around it as his shaking fingers guide a curved needle through his own skin. Like mending a hole in his breeches. Except—much more stabby. Much more disgusting. Much more likely to make him faint, but he doesn't, by the grace of the gods and everything that is sacred, he stays upright long enough to wrap a loose bandage around himself, to tint the water in the basin a pale pink, attempting to get his hands clean. He doesn't want Geralt coming back to a murder scene, after all.

Jaskier throws a shirt on and decides he deserves to call it a night. And if he falls asleep hopelessly aroused, that's his business now.

* * *

He doesn't wake when Geralt gets back, though he must have—got back, that is, judging by how he's here, sprawled gracelessly on top of the covers an arm's length away. He looks a little worse for the wear, perhaps, and his armour certainly could use a good scrubbing, but Jaskier haven't the heart to wake him just yet. The fact that Geralt is still asleep with the sun high on the horizon speaks for itself, so Jaskier tries his absolute best to keep quiet as he slips out of bed, except—

Except.

The whole—being _stabbed_ situation is not, not great for his cause, to say the least. He collapses backwards in a fit of blinding pain, and collapsing only makes it worse, only makes the gash throb more and, gods, he's certain, certain that he can feel the thread holding it together, pulling at the tender skin.

It's fine, he's fine.

A deep breath feels like a thousand needles in his lungs, makes his vision blur and whiten around the edges.

But he'd seen Geralt take near-fatal injuries without as much as a wince, and maybe comparing himself to that mountain of a man is not entirely fair, but damn him if he lets himself be bested.

So Jaskier grits his teeth so hard he fears they'll chip, lunges to his feet even as his whole body screams at him not to and really, he's fine. He robs Geralt of a few coins, carelessly spilled on the rickety chest of drawers. The thought of bending over to pick up his own purse—frankly, scares him.

This littlest of towns happens to have a bathhouse, run down as it is, and truly, he must be favoured by the gods, there isn't any other explanation for it.

The room is hot with steam and smells faintly of sweat and herbs and fruit, and he's a little queasy, a little unwell, but there's blood dried in the creases of his palms, on his knuckles and underneath his fingernails and that won't do, it will not do at all, those hands are his livelihood.

But as he sinks into one of the spacious bathtubs, as his poorly bandaged wound touches the hot water, he really does feel like he'll retch, just from the overwhelming pain of it. And Geralt does this every time, doesn't he, the bastard.

The dressing is much easier to get off wet, though, so Jaskier soldiers through it, he's a big boy, he's had worse. Blood comes off his skin in little specks of rust that cling to him even as he valiantly tries to scrub himself clean. It feels like he'll never be clean, not truly. He runs a cloth over his knuckles, hisses at the sharp pain that blooms when he discoveres them scraped and raw. He'd landed a few solid punches before the blade was drawn—that at least causes warm satisfaction to swell in his chest.

Jaskier splashes some water on his face, inhales as deeply as he's able to. He thinks he's in the clear. The skin on his abdomen is pale as ever, free of the atrament-dark bruises Geralt sports sometimes, if he'd nicked an organ. He runs gentle fingers around his sloppy stitches and wishes he were drunk again.

But he cleans the gash, teeth sunk into his lip— because what is some more pain in the grand scheme of things, really—and if he finds his cock staggeringly hard against his thigh at the end of it, well. That's still his business.

* * *

Jaskier means to ask Geralt for help, he does. Means to ask him to look at the stitches, ask for a pot of the frankly magical healing salve that he keeps on hand.

The request is on the tip of his tongue when he pushes the door open, but Geralt is stumbling out of bed, clearly hurt, clearly in a state much worse than Jaskier first thought, and his focus shifts from his own injuries to Geralt's without hesitation.

* * *

It isn't until a couple days later that they're back on the road, Geralt weak and in denial about the fact. It isn't until they've put significant distance between themselves and the town that Jaskier realises he'd, perhaps, bitten off more than he can chew.

It isn't until he feels the bandage sticking to his skin, until the blood pools warm between his side and the linen dressing and he thinks _fuck_ , he'll ruin another shirt and also _fuck_ , because maybe he'd forgotten to mention this to Geralt, with everything going on,

 _Geralt asking if he's hurt, Geralt asking why he smells blood (Jaskier jokingly telling him it's probably his own), Geralt looking over at him, brow furrowed, lips drawn in a tight line, trying to figure him out_ ,

and _fuck_ , fuck, a wave of nausea laps at his insides and the world burns white for just a moment.

Longer than a moment, possibly, because when he opens his eyes again the ground underneath him is solid and so are Geralt's hands roaming over his chest. He tastes blood. His head pounds. His side throbs. His _face_ aches.

"What the fuck, Jaskier," Geralt mutters just as his fingers find the wound soaking through its dressing.

Jaskier hisses, a delirious laugh bubbling in his throat.

"I may have been—lightly stabbed," he admits. His voice sounds strange. High. Nasal. There's more blood on his lips.

"You've been stabbed." It's more a disbelieving statement than a genuine question.

" _Lightly_ stabbed, keep up, will you?" Geralt is, in fact, not keeping up. He just frowns, roughly tugging Jaskier's shirt out of his trousers, unbuttoning it right there, in sight of gods and men—yes, fine, this stretch of road may be deserted and shielded by trees, but the gods are watching over him, Jaskier knows. Geralt's touch grows gentle as he moves to unwrap the bandage. " _Geralt_. I've handled it, I'm handling it."

Geralt, predictably, remains unconvinced.

"A child stitch you up? A crippled old man?"

Jaskier isn't certain that the words are meant for him, really—rather a general insult directed at the world as a whole—but he answers anyway. "I did it myself."

It doesn't escape him that Geralt's hands still, or that the look Geralt gives him is nearly—oh, _concerned_?

"Can I get some water? And then we can be on our way?" Jaskier says, hopeful.

It's really hot. Jaskier decides he doesn't care for summer anymore. His head swims. His nose is broken, he thinks. Maybe.

"I'm going to fix the stitches. Then we'll make camp."

There's no room for argument. Jaskier argues, anyway. " _Geralt_."

And he tries to push himself up, but his limbs tremble even when he's laid flat on the ground.

"Stay."

Jaskier stays, because Geralt is a big strong man, and his friend, and Jaskier wants to do what pleases him, and because Geralt suddenly has a knife out. Maybe.

Everything is just a flash, after that.

He remembers Geralt saying _scream if you need to_ , remembers the sound of the stitches being cut away and the horrible sensation of a needle threading through sore skin. Remembers Geralt's big hand coming to rest on his heaving stomach, trying to hold him down, to ground him, to comfort him.

He _doesn't_ remember his cock growing hard, doesn't notice it, even, not until Geralt's forearm brushes the horrifically obvious bulge in his trousers. Not until he _moans_ when it happens.

"Gods, sorry, sorry, it's—" _the adrenaline_ , he means to say, but any and all words die a quick death in his parched throat when he looks at Geralt, finds his eyes sparkling, pupils blown too wide for a late summer afternoon. Geralt's hand stays a heavy weight on his abdomen. "Geralt?"

Jaskier's gone mad, surely, because he thinks—gods, but for a heartbeat he _thinks_ Geralt might lean in and kiss him. He looks like he wants to, kiss him and ravish him and ruin him for everyone else. Jaskier isn't opposed.

But no, no, Geralt wouldn't. Geralt merely helps Jaskier to his feet, guides him gently with a platonic arm around his waist until they come to a clearing acceptable for making camp.

Later, when the sun finally relents, Geralt feeds a few logs to the small fire they'd made to dry their filthy clothes. Jaskier's blood is still on his hands—literally, not figuratively—and Jaskier _wonders_.

Perhaps it's not just his business, now.

* * *

Nights in the north are cold even in summer. It's the chill that wakes him, Jaskier thinks. His teeth clatter. One of his arms had gone numb under him, even though he swears he'd fallen asleep on his back. His back, which now is—warm. Hot. There's an arm thrown over his stomach, steady breath fanning over the side of his face.

Geralt's hard cock grinding against his bottom.

Huh.

"Geralt," he calls sleepily, because this is the most glorious dream and he's ready to get some, to wake up in shame with his trousers all messy.

The arm around him tightens and—fuck, fuck, " _Fuck_!"

Not a dream, then.

He's about to protest, to tell Geralt not to hold him so tightly, not to squeeze over the stitches. But he just. Doesn't. It's hard to breathe. Hard to focus.

Everything is— _hard_.

" _Geralt_." Except his voice, his voice stays soft, barely audible. Breathless. He can't _breathe_.

"You like it when it hurts."

And Jaskier jolts, fully awake, fully aware. Not for long, if Geralt doesn't let him take a nice big breath sometime soon. Gods, he probably couldn't move even without Geralt holding him. His whole body hurts.

"Tell me." Geralt's lips are on the back of his neck. "Tell me."

Oh, but he does.

He likes it when it hurts.

"I like it," there's teeth, now, sharp and threatening, "when it hurts."

Geralt groans like _he's_ the one in pain, but he loosens his hold. The cool air rushing to Jaskier's lungs is unreasonably good.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asks, quiet in the still night. He moves his hips back, just a little. Because he has a death wish, apparently. " _Geralt_."

The name finds its way to his lips too easily lately, especially considering how Geralt barely ever responds when it does. He should stop doing that. He should stop doing a great many things, really, truly, and maybe rocking his hips against Geralt's cock while moaning his name like the cheapest whore is one of those things.

Maybe.

Who's to say, really?

"Geralt."

And maybe taking Geralt's hand and pressing it to where the stitches pull his skin taut, where he's hot and sore and sensitive in the most horrible way—maybe that's a thing he never should've done in the first place.

 _Maybe_.

But his cock throbs in time with the cut, and not breathing turns out to be sort of nice, actually, and this is just a night of self-discovery for Jaskier.

"Will you—hurt me more?" he asks, afraid of the answer, afraid it's yes, afraid it's no.

Geralt flinches at the question. "Not like this," he whispers, finally, and the wretched bastard rolls away. "Never like this."

Jaskier is suddenly very cold. Very cold and painfully aroused and painfully pain-ridden. There's a lot of pain involved. He finds that he doesn't mind.

"Well." He rolls, too. "That's awfully rude." On top of Geralt, with not a smidge of grace or poise, his body aching as he does so, dirt sticking to his clothes and his skin and his soul. "You ought to finish what you started, at least."

And maybe having to convince Geralt to finish brutalising him is not necessarily what Jaskier thought would happen when he'd fallen asleep.

But when the gods give you a blessing, you really are in no place to be picky.

And the gods just keep blessing him, by letting him brace his hands on Geralt's chest, by letting him grind his arse over his cock, bouncing on it and moaning like it's already in him.

"Geralt. Geralt, _Geralt_."

Maybe he just likes the way the name rolls off his tongue as his voice climbs in pitch. It's a pleasant thing, satisfying.

Not nearly as satisfying as the low _Jaskier_ that rumbles through Geralt's chest like an avalanche, an earthquake, a great, horrible disaster. Geralt's strong hands are holding his thighs spread, a vice that won't relent. Gods, Jaskier has died, surely. He'd been stabbed in the heart and perished and now he gets to live out his most obscene fantasies for all of eternity. Tragic, that he'd died so young.

Tragic, but he'll bear it, because he'd very much like to come, fake-riding Geralt's dick, and then come some more, possibly real-riding Geralt's dick, possibly with a row of bite marks along his shoulder and a solid slap to his face. He'd enjoyed those before, in an entirely different context, meant as harm rather than pleasure. It didn't help his case, groaning raggedly after his paramour's fiancé had backhanded him, though it _is_ comforting to know it was the pain of it, not the humiliation that did him in. Jaskier is still a proud man.

Proud, but not overly so. Not averse to begging, if need be.

"Please, will you—if I ask, Geralt, Geralt, if I ask—"

" _Yes_."

 _Yes yes yes_ , Jaskier's so close, he's so close to coming he can feel it fizzing in his veins, crackling at the base of his spine. He squeezes his cock through his trousers and it's rough, it's too dry, the buttons dig into him uncomfortably. He rocks between his hand and Geralt's dick and the pain that twists his insides, dangling off the edge, one step away from crossing it.

And his magnificent beast of a witcher just works to convince Jaskier that this _is_ a dream, this is the afterlife, because suddenly Geralt is coming apart under him, head tipped back and eyes wild, his fingertips digging so deep into the meat of Jaskier's thighs that he feels like the bone may snap, and that's it, that's what he needs to hurl over the precipice so violently it leaves him shaking.

"Fu— _uck_."


	2. & sweat & sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclosure, Jaskier gets well & truly rekt, cos he's a sweet boy & deserves it

Jaskier has got it bad.

Geralt thinks it abuse, what'd happened. Thinks he'd taken advantage of Jaskier's vulnerable state. Calls it coercion.

Jaskier thinks it probably the most glorious orgasm of his whole entire life, even if they'd ceased at animalistic rutting, Geralt sending him to sleep immediately while he himself had paced almost frantically around the camp for the rest of the night.

Jaskier also thinks, nay, _knows_ that he could explain it to Geralt, could talk it out enough that even his witcher's particularly thick, mutated skull would not shield him from the truth.

The truth being that Jaskier absolutely needs to get fucked silly, so hard all his letters jumble, needs to get roughed up and torn down, and that Geralt is the only one who can give that to him. The only one Jaskier trusts enough to do so.

The concept is quite easy to grasp. Just one solid talk would do it.

Except not talking about anything, ever, is precisely Geralt's brand of not talking, so by default he'd won this nonexistent argument.

Jaskier once again comes to curse at the gods.

It's been weeks. Geralt had taken out the stitches for good, and the gash knitted over with pink, tender skin. The scar hurts to touch, so naturally, Jaskier touches a lot. He's surprised it healed at all, considering how much he'd fondled it each time he had a wank.

Jaskier has got it _bad_.

But it's a new dawn and Geralt had not sent him away yet.

"Geralt," he says quickly, thinking the element of surprise would be precisely the advantage he needs. "You said if I _asked_."

Geralt glares at him with the kind of gaze he imagines was the last thing many a person saw before being impaled on a sword. It stopped bothering Jaskier years ago.

"Well, I'm asking."

It's a new dawn and Geralt wants to put his glorious dick in him, no matter his brutish denial. He'd said it once—shown it, really, but don't actions speak louder than words?—and there are no take-backs in Jaskier's book.

* * *

He grows to enjoy summer, again, once his blood accepts its predicament of staying inside of his body and he no longer feels weak from the heat.

(Geralt assures him that his nose isn't broken, just bruised, but the breath wheezes out of him even so, and privately Jaskier harbours his doubts.)

So he enjoys summer, because of course he does, because he has to. Summer is too bright, the air stiff and hot, the days long and tiring, and it's all unbearable. But sometimes they stumble upon a meadow vibrant with the loveliest wildflowers, and the air turns sweet in Jaskier's lungs. Sometimes, the sky casts over with thick grey clouds blessing them with rain, a short, violent downpour that leaves static crackling at Jaskier's fingertips.

Sometimes, the sweltering heat makes him undo all the buttons of his shirt, ready to rip it off and wander the path naked as the day he'd been born, and a number of other days after that.

But then, at the end of an endless day, they happen on an impetuous stream, and the faint breeze splatters little droplets of water that nearly sizzle against Jaskier's heated skin, and he decides it's worth it, after all.

Geralt leaves him, then—on a contract, a quick, easy thing. Turns his back with a gruff _don't go in the water_. He stops, clearly thinking twice about it and faces Jaskier again.

" _Do not_ go in the water."

"I won't."

Geralt glares. "Jaskier."

"I won't!"

He's _so_ going in the water.

Jaskier waits until Geralt disappears behind the treeline, and then waits some more, just to be safe, before he strips. He has to peel the breeches off of himself. He throws them in a heap on the ground without as much as a thought, joined by his last clean shirt and his undergarments.

He's seen better days, definitely.

The water is clear, silver foam its only blemish as it curls around sharp rocks that peek from under the surface. Jaskier has half a mind to be careful. Well—careful enough, that is. He'd bathed in rivers before, knows them to be unpredictable and deceptive at best. He's semi-confident that he won't crack his skull open.

Gods, but the water feels so gods-damn _good_ he nearly weeps with it.

Jaskier keeps near the bank, dunking his head with a content laugh. He can't believe Geralt would deny him this pleasure. They're going to have some words about it, once his witcher gets back.

For now he luxuriates in the water, relishes washing his tired body thoroughly, scrubbing his face clean of sticky sweat, under his arms and between his legs. He can't recall the last time he'd felt this clean. It's a treat he can't indulge in often on the road.

His fingers are starting to prune as the sun begins its descent. It won't be dark for a couple hours yet, Jaskier knows, but worry threatens to gnaw at his insides all the same. Didn't Geralt say it's an easy job? Didn't he say he'll be back in a flash?

(He didn't, but Jaskier had _assumed_.)

He casts a heavy glance over to where Geralt had disappeared beyond the trees.

A few things happen at once, then.

One, Jaskier thinks, _huh, but the river is louder than it were a minute ago_.

Two, he feels pressure on his upper arm, a mere scrape, except it grows and grows and suddenly the water rushing around him runs pink.

Three, he turns, and finds himself a lot closer to a drowner than he ever had the desire to be.

Oh.

Geralt had gone—upstream. To take care of the drowners.

Up-the-stream.

Right, yeah.

The thing seems to be on its last leg; it's not difficult to move out of range of its grabby claws, to heave himself up on the bank. Jaskier watches as the current carries the creature away.

Don't go in the water.

He gets up on shaky legs just as Geralt barrels full-speed into the clearing, sword in hand and all.

 _Right_.

* * *

It's been a while since he'd seen Geralt this furious.

He doesn't even get a chance to cover himself before Geralt is on him, yanking Jaskier away from the riverbank with a fistful of wet hair.

"Can't listen, can you?"

Dare he say—he'd _never_ seen Geralt this furious.

"Do you _want_ to get yourself killed?"

Geralt grabs his right arm, the one now adorned with a ragged cut. Blood beads around its edges, mixes with drops of water as it rolls sluggishly down his forearm.

"Geralt—" he tries to say, tries to explain himself because this'd been an accident, well and truly. Surely Geralt doesn't think—but then again, why wouldn't he?

" _No._ No, Jaskier, do you?" Geralt shakes him to drive the point home. Like he's scolding a child.

"I don't, I don't."

His voice lacks in conviction. Geralt is not pleased, he can tell. Jaskier aches to please him. He moans, a little bit, without meaning to, when Geralt's fingers dig into his arm, tight and tighter, and they reach so far around they nearly touch.

"You'd do anything for a thrill, wouldn't you? _Fuck_. You could've died."

Jaskier wonders if the big bad witcher would be willing to take him over the knee to teach him this lesson.

"But I didn't."

Geralt's eyes are dark. With fury, Jaskier assumes. What else.

"You want to be hurt? _Fine_."

The grip around his bicep relents. He braces for impact; slips his eyes shut, grits his teeth in preparation for a blow that never comes.

Instead, Geralt kisses him, suddenly, finally, except—it's more a bite than a kiss, more punishment than affection. Not far off from the punch he'd expected. There's teeth tugging at his lip, tearing it apart, tearing him apart, and at one point he thinks Geralt _growls_ at him.

Jaskier gets so hard, so quickly, his knees nearly give out.

Geralt crowds in impossibly closer, shoulders square, jaw set. Jaskier's dick is pressed between his own naked belly and the harsh planes of Geralt's armour, and this time, this time he did die, he must have.

Fingers tangle in his hair, force his head back with a sharp tug, so Geralt can press his face tight against Jaskier's throat. Jaskier shivers at the drag of stubble over the delicate skin. Nearly shouts, startled, when teeth clamp down hard on the side of his neck. The dull pressure is different from the pain of a cut, better, somehow.

"I hate it when you smell clean," Geralt whispers into his ear, like it's his deepest, darkest secret.

"You'll just have to dirty me back up."

Geralt flashes him a dry smile, then, that's all teeth and no warmth, meant to threaten rather than reassure, before he kicks the legs out from under him, setting Jaskier to sprawl gracelessly on the ground.

He manages to catch himself on knees and elbows. The earth is forgiving, the grass soft. Jaskier almost wishes it wasn't so. Almost wishes to feel the paralysing pain of impact radiating through his joints.

 _Fuck_.

He scrambles to get up, but his legs don't quite go that way. No matter; Geralt presses a heavy boot between his shoulder blades that forces Jaskier chest-first into the dirt. There's no spoken command, no threat of a blade this time to make him obey, but Jaskier stays anyway.

_Can't listen, can you?_

He can. He will. He'll be good.

"Geralt—"

The thrill of anticipation thrums so loud in his veins that his whole body pulsates with it, makes his skin break out in gooseflesh even against the heat. Gods, he's hard. He _wants_ it hard.

He chances a look up when Geralt disappears from his immediate vicinity, and nearly chokes on his own saliva.

 _Gods have mercy_.

"Come," Geralt says from where he's sat on a sizeable rock near the riverbank, legs spread slightly in lewd invitation. "Crawl," he corrects, voice rough—but steady, unwavering.

Jaskier's relationship with the higher powers up until now had been rocky at best, but he thinks it only proper to visit a temple, if he lives to see it.

Once he's kneeling between Geralt's boots, chin up in foolish defiance, once he thinks he's seconds away from choking on the most magnificent cock the Continent has ever seen—Geralt does the improbable. The _impossible_.

"Up," as he pats his leather-clad thigh.

 _Is this it, then?_ Jaskier thinks, climbing onto Geralt's lap. _Is the bastard finally admitting to reading minds?_

He wiggles his hips a little, finding his cock crushed—painfully, pleasantly—against the side of Geralt's leg, but no sooner does he move than the still air echoes with a loud _crack_.

The sound comes before the pain, but the pain most certainly does come.

A sharp sting, at first, amplified with each harsh slap to his bottom, because Geralt is relentless, because he's more beast than man, suddenly. Jaskier keeps his lower lip firmly between his teeth, so he doesn't cry out accidentally, doesn't moan like a two-piece whore from getting the punishment worth a disobedient brat.

His skin quickly turns tight, no doubt on its way to bright red. He marks easily. Bruises easily. The thought—waking up sore, sitting up only to find his arse reddened like a ripe apple, the backs of his thighs purpled—makes him shiver. He wouldn't see it, not without a looking glass, but Geralt would, and that's enough, it's enough.

The fifteenth, or twentieth, or thirtieth heavy smack of Geralt's palm introduces a deep, lasting ache. It makes Jaskier squeeze his thighs together, flex his muscles against the assault, and the movement jostles him enough that his leaking cock slides against the soft, warm leather of Geralt's trousers. He does moan, then. Can't help it. Can't help—rutting forward, just a bit, as tears suddenly distort his vision, but it's so good, _so good_ , ah, if only—

"Don't come," Geralt's voice rings, and then the clearing falls silent, save for the constant rush of the stream.

Jaskier trembles without meaning to. He paws desperately at Geralt's boot, so he doesn't fall to the ground—and still he nearly does fall when Geralt brings his hand down, not to hurt, but to caress. The toughened skin of his palm rasps deliciously against tender flesh as he rubs soothing circles from the base of Jaskier's spine all the way to the tops of his thighs.

And it burns, the gods save his soul, it burns so horribly, so thoroughly he can't think about anything else, just the pain and how good it'd be, how nice it'd be to grind his treacherous cock against Geralt and come and come and come—

But Geralt told him not to, told him no.

Jaskier can listen.

He can.

Geralt hums his approval, clearly finding Jaskier's restraint satisfactory, except then—

Then he lands another hit, harder than the others purely because of how unexpected it is, and one of his fingers taps Jaskier's tight balls where they're squeezed between his legs, and he _howls_ at that, he does, sobs in pain and relief, and he shakes all over because he'd—

He'd come.

Fuck, gods, fuck.

An aftershock of pleasure burns through him.

_Fuck._

Geralt inhales sharply. Pauses. Instead of his arse, the witcher's hand goes to Jaskier's hair.

" _Geralt_." His voice is thick with tears. He sniffles pathetically.

He's dizzy with it when Geralt pushes him off his lap back onto the grass. His head is too heavy on his shoulders, but Geralt tilts his face up.

"Jaskier," he says, seeming almost amused. "Clean up your mess."

Jaskier lets his gaze fall to where black leather is stained with pearly white. He watches, transfixed, as a drop spills down the inside of Geralt's thigh.

He hesitates a moment too long, apparently, because Geralt slaps him square across the face, just the once. A fat tear rolls down Jaskier's burning cheek.

" _Jaskier_ ," and this time his tone is impatient. Threatening.

Jaskier does as he's bid. Because he can listen. He can be good.

The spend is bitter on his tongue, or maybe it's the leather itself. Jaskier doesn't dwell on the taste, just laps up the last of it, because he's _good_.

He's so, so good, and he keeps his lips on the leather as he makes his way to where Geralt's dick strains hot and heavy against the fabric.

Geralt huffs above him.

"Think you've earned that?"

Jaskier nods frantically, his eyes squeezed shut, tongue trying in vain to wrap around the cock before him. He's good, he is.

"Please," he whines, a great lump in his throat making the word sound strange, muffled. "Please," but Geralt only gives a short laugh in response, only tugs on his hair and smothers Jaskier's face against his groin until Jaskier's lungs ache.

* * *

It's torture.

It's the sweetest, most terribly magnificent torture he's ever endured, but it's torture.

"Please, Geralt, _Geralt_ —"

The sound of Geralt's fingers taking him so roughly is obscene. The pitiful, desperate noises that spill out of his raw throat even more so.

 _I'll fuck you_ , Geralt had said, a lifetime ago, _after you come again, since you like it so much_.

And Jaskier had thrilled at the prospect, because he'd been a fool, because his cock'd gone hard again quicker than it had in the past decade, maybe, and gods, Geralt said he would _fuck_ him—

He presses his forehead against the cool earth, breath coming out in a little _ah ah ah_ staccato. His thighs tremble, overtaxed, struggling to support him.

Geralt doesn't seem to fall victim to exhaustion.

Geralt keeps—fucking him, with four thick, relentless fingers, and he'd found the right way to sink into him a good while ago, so every thrust serves to send a jolt of raw pleasure up Jaskier's spine, through his very soul.

Jaskier moans, and groans, and mewls, and he wants to come, he _needs_ it beyond just pleasing his witcher, because he's been on the edge so long it'll drive him to madness, and fuck, gods—

If only Geralt let him touch his fucking _cock_.

Geralt doesn't.

Geralt is a cruel, cruel man.

Geralt presses the knuckles of his other hand into the bruises that have started to form on his arse, for no reason other than to make Jaskier whimper.

"Touch me, Geralt, please, _touch_ me."

Tears fall from his face, softly. Freely. The words he chokes out are a sob, he thinks.

Geralt leans over him, then, leans in, and Jaskier doesn't think his fingers could move any faster but they _do_ , somehow, and,

"Be _good_ for me."

And Jaskier is good, he _is_ good, so he comes, lets ecstasy seize him as he finally spills on the ground underneath, and he cries a little bit more, trying to get away from the insistent press of Geralt's fingers, ah, ah, fuck—

"Pretty," Geralt comments simply when Jaskier collapses, when he ruts against the grass for the briefest of moments.

His breath comes laboured and unsatisfying.

Jaskier's come twice. He hasn't come twice in one night in a very, very long time.

Jaskier's come twice and Geralt hasn't even taken his own cock out, and it makes him feel—

Empty. Hollow.

He shudders at the thought of more, of harder, of—of coming, again, and yet—

He needs it so badly. Needs it more than he needs this shoddy air.

"I need you," he mumbles, getting his knees back under him. Presenting himself to Geralt.

Because he wants to be good.

Jaskier feels close to screaming when Geralt doesn't pounce on him immediately. When Geralt doesn't seem nearly as desperate for it. There's a hand, gently brushing his sweaty fringe from his eyes.

"You promised."

Silence. Then, "Jaskier, you—"

And Jaskier doesn't want to hear it, doesn't care to hear a word of it. "You promised! Fuck me, take me, fuck, you—you _promised_." His voice gives out into a squeak. "Please."

He rocks his hips back, face still against the ground.

"Does it hurt?"

Geralt has moved, Jaskier thinks, from his side to behind him, because he's got two hands grabbing Jaskier's bottom, pulling his cheeks apart.

Jaskier musters all his strength to push up on his hands, eyes still shut as he sways into the touch.

"Yes."

He hears Geralt suck in a pained breath. Hears him undoing his glorious leather trousers. Hears a bottle popping open, and the slick sound of Geralt taking himself in hand.

Jaskier hears angels singing divine harmonies when Geralt finally, finally pushes in.

It's—a revelation. It's like the first time he'd truly taken a cock, like all the ones before were simply preparing him for this.

He doesn't think the intoxicating press of him will ever end, but it's better when it does, when Geralt's sharp hip bones dig against his sore arse.

If Jaskier weren't already in love, he could easily love Geralt for his cock alone.

Fuck.

"F—uck, Geralt, _oh_."

He'd just come, and it was a struggle. He'd just come, and his cock aches, and the thought of it getting hard again brings him to tears once more. He'd just come, but when Geralt moves, his thrusts are far from gentle and closer to the best he's ever had, and Jaskier burns so horribly bright with desire, he can't bear it, oh, gods.

"Fuck, fuck me, harder, _harder_ , G— _ah_!"

He hangs his head low, even though he wants to throw it back and scream to the world, but words escape him when Geralt _does_ give him harder, faster, so much more than Jaskier ever thought possible.

And Geralt, Geralt is intimately acquainted with Jaskier's sweet spot, but even if he weren't—Jaskier doubts he could miss it with that cock, surely designed by the goddess herself, and Jaskier's brain threatens to overheat with each dizzying push, so he barely catches the low rumble of Geralt's voice at first.

"I'll breed you—like a whore, like a bitch, fuck."

Jaskier goes a little cross-eyed, or maybe it's the stars swirling in front of him. His cock gives a hearty twitch, the pain of it is almost sweeter than the pleasure.

"I'll breed you full, leave you _dripping_ —"

Geralt groans, hips snapping as if to prove the point. His fingers, wrapped around Jaskier's waist, squeeze tighter.

"Come in me," Jaskier hears, and the sentiment is his own, so the words must be as well, though he doesn't feel capable of them. "Fuck me full, yes, _yes yes yes_ —"

Geralt stills for a heartbeat, thrusts back in with erratic haste. The sound that he gives as he comes inside Jaskier— _comes inside Jaskier, fuck_ —threatens to send Jaskier's oversensitive cock to half-hard against all odds.

He doesn't think he'll ever be ready to fuck again. He doesn't think he'll live to see another day, for that matter. Geralt's hold on him wavers and Jaskier collapses once more onto the increasingly cold ground.

But Geralt is a _cruel_ man.

"No, no, Geralt, I can't—"

Geralt pulls on his shoulder until Jaskier rolls over on his back, until his witcher can push his knees apart and settle between his splayed legs, cock glistening and still inexorably hard.

He can't, he cannot. He'll die. "I'll _die_."

But Jaskier can feel Geralt's seed leaking out of his overused hole, and he has—he has the mad thought of needing to keep it in, a thought so overwhelming he pulls Geralt forward by his hair and, against his better instincts, whispers, "Fuck me."

The sun is low, but its last rays allow him to see Geralt clearly. His hair dishevelled like he'd come from slaying a thousand beasts, eyes nearly black with hunger as they bore into Jaskier, his prey, his _prize_. Jaskier can't take it.

" _Fuck_ me," he begs again.

The head of Geralt's cock slips into him so easily Jaskier wants to laugh. Gods, he's so sore, he's so tired and sensitive and used up, and he tries his best to angle his hips away from Geralt, away from the delicious drag of his cock but,

"Stay," Geralt barks, and bares his teeth before he sinks them into Jaskier's shoulder. He jerks at that, tries to push Geralt away—but his witcher doesn't let up until sharp canines pierce the skin, until Jaskier's sure he'll rip him to pieces, take this bite out of him and then another 'til there's nothing left.

Strong hands come to rest on his hips, not to hold him down but—to _pull_ him onto Geralt's cock, to make him take it, and pleasure crawls through his body to the very tips of his fingers, pleasure so absolute, so all-consuming he sobs with it.

Every thrust forces a desperate sound out of him, until they're a constant pleading trickle, interrupted only when his fuck-drunk mind makes him cry out, "Harder, harder, please, fuck—"

The words dissolve into a sob, too.

"Greedy," Geralt says as he leans in again, and his hair tickles Jaskier's collarbone. "I gave you so much and you still want more?"

 _No_ , he thinks. _No more_. "Please," he whispers instead as he nods feverishly.

Geralt presses his knees closer to his chest. Makes Jaskier keep them there. It's difficult, when Geralt keeps fucking him like he needs it to breathe, when every minute move makes Jaskier want to clamp his legs shut and _die_.

"I'll give you more," Geralt says finally, voice maddeningly steady, infuriatingly unbothered, like it was when he'd said _I'll fuck you_. "I'll give you so much you'll never want for anything."

 _Break me_ , Jaskier wants to scream, _ruin me._ "Please."

And he does scream, a wordless, pitiful thing when Geralt brings his palm harshly against the back of Jaskier's thigh, where he's raw and aching. He pants raggedly. Tries to wiggle away.

Geralt does it again.

And again and again.

" _Fuck_ ," Jaskier manages to choke out. _Stop_ , he doesn't say.

He tries to bat Geralt away, tries his best, but he's too weak, too overwhelmed. Geralt needs only one hand to pin his wrists together high above his head, to hold them there.

"Please, Geralt—"

Geralt stops.

Geralt looks at him, long and hard, tilts his head to the side like he's thinking about the senseless plea.

"What is it," Geralt's thumb rubs little gentle circles on his bruised skin, "that you want?"

Jaskier tries to shift his hips, to get Geralt's cock to move inside him. Because he's a fool. Because he has a death wish. Because he wants to be _good_ , wants to _please_ his witcher, wants—

"Harder." It comes out slurred. Barely coherent, just as Jaskier feels. "Hit me." _Tell me I'm good._ "Fuck me."

Because Jaskier—impossibly, unfeasibly—is close to coming, again, straddling the edge that's turned sharp with the exhilarating pain of _too much_ , and here he is asking for more, like the right slut he is. His abused cock rests on his trembling belly, somehow hard, sticky and swollen at the head.

Jaskier doesn't think he's got the strength to cry out—doesn't think much at all, the flow of his thought long fucked out of him—but when Geralt starts pounding into him with a renewed passion, Jaskier feels the beginning notes of a terrible scream at the back of his throat, waiting to be let out.

Geralt sets it loose with a well-aimed slap to the side of his ribcage, where the skin is still new and puckered and tender, where a knife had been not a moon ago. And it hurts, suddenly, as if the blade never left—so Jaskier tries to curl up and cover himself, tries to get away, and he's _so close to coming_ he can't see straight, but he can't come again, surely, and when the next smack Geralt deals is to his twitching cock Jaskier _hollers_ , thrashes out of Geralt's grip, comes so hard his whole body sings with it.

* * *

He could say no, is the thing.

Geralt would—he'd stop if Jaskier had told him to.

 _That's awfully rude_ , Geralt had said after Jaskier tried to clamp his shaking legs together. The words sounded familiar, slightly strange on his witcher's tongue. His own words, from millenia ago.

He tries to say no, he does, but it fizzles, burns out like a snuffed candle with each attempt, moans and pleas rising from its ashes instead.

 _I'll let you off when you make me come_.

Jaskier had never known Geralt to be dishonest.

So he—does what's asked of him. Because he's—

"Good. _Good_ boy."

A whine. His own. He wouldn't accuse Geralt of such indiscretions.

Not the Geralt that's laid down under him now, head resting leisurely upon his folded arms as he watches Jaskier fuck himself on his cock.

Not this _cruel_ , merciless Geralt, that only moves to slap his thigh and growl at him, urging him to go faster.

He could say no. It hurts so much. His chest constricts with a sob, and even that drives Geralt's cock deeper into him, deeper than should be possible.

_Clearly I haven't fucked you good enough if you can still scream._

His own cock, soft and wet with come, keeps bouncing with him, slapping heavily against his stomach, against the rough edge of Geralt's armour.

It hurts so much, so terribly much. He just wants to touch Geralt, he wants—

Geralt had—he'd marked him, all over, left bruises at his throat and his wrists and his hips. The raw skin of his arse keeps—dragging over the leather of Geralt's trousers, and it _hurts_ , and Jaskier's head spins, and he just yearns to touch Geralt, just a little bit, to claw at his skin and leave a mark of his own, no matter how temporary.

He rocks through the burn in his thighs as he goes faster, because he can't _touch_ his witcher but he can make him come—come inside him, again, fill him up 'til he can't hold any more.

Night's fallen around them, but the sky is clear. Bright. Geralt's eyes shine in the moonlight, fierce and beautiful and somehow—still _hungry_ , after all he'd taken from Jaskier, after everything.

Jaskier grits his teeth and quickens his pace. Tries to clench around Geralt's cock and that hurts, too. Burns. But maybe he's—maybe he's fucked too loose, too open to bring his witcher pleasure. Maybe he can't be _good_.

" _Geralt_." He doesn't know where the tears keep coming from. Geralt had given him some water to drink, earlier. Maybe that's it. "Geralt, please—come in me, please, I need it, need it so much, ah—"

He does need it, he does, because that would mean he'd done good.

_Can't listen, can you?_

He _can_ listen, he'll do what Geralt asked of him, if only—

"Please." He feels drunk. "Please, my, my _wolf_ , come in me, need to feel full of you, need you to stay in me—"

Maybe Geralt takes pity on him, or maybe he doesn't, but he reaches up to grab Jaskier's hair and yanks him down for a kiss, a real kiss, a perfect, sickeningly sweet kiss that tastes of desperation and tears and Jaskier _floats_ on it.

Geralt holds him down as he spills within him, sucks on his tongue and brushes his disgustingly sweaty hair.

"Thank you," Jaskier whimpers against his lips. " _Thank you_."

He doesn't want Geralt to pull out.

But it hurts so much, oh _gods_.

"You were so good, Jaskier."

He nods. He was good. He'd made Geralt come.

"Show me what I'd done to you."

He nods again. Just one more thing. And then he can sleep. He'll sleep forever, he'll sleep through the sunrise and the sunset and then some more. And he'll never touch his cock again.

Just this one last thing.

Geralt helps him turn around, straddle his witcher's abdomen. One of the armour's buckles digs into his leg. He doesn't have the strength to feel exposed, to feel embarrassed as Geralt looks at his fucked-out hole, even when he knows the seed drips out of him.

"Pretty," Geralt says, again, and he sounds like he's smiling. Warmth spreads from Jaskier's very core, soothes his aching muscles. But then, "C'mere."

And Geralt—fuck, but Geralt—

 _No_ , he wants to scream when Geralt manhandles him up, up, up over his chest. _Stop_ , a part of him aches to say when he feels the tip of Geralt's tongue tease around his hole.

He only whines instead, tries to get away because it _hurts_ to be touched there, and he could say no, oh, _oh_ , he could say no—

But then Geralt would stop.

" _Please_."

Geralt hums, then. It vibrates through Jaskier's entire body, sends a violent shudder up his spine.

Geralt is tasting himself, he realises.

The thought sends Jaskier's head spinning. He rocks his hips slightly— _to get away, away from this agony_ , but he's so tired and it _hurts_ so much and it feels so _good_ and he finds himself mindlessly riding Geralt's tongue like he'd ridden his dick, climbing higher and higher still.

He could stay like this for all of eternity, caught between pain and raw, scalding pleasure, hanging by a thread of consciousness. If it'd please his witcher. If he'd call Jaskier good again.

Jaskier can't breathe, when Geralt reaches around to pet at his soft cock.

He could say no, he can say no, he can, he will, except—

Geralt touches him so gently, and he keeps fucking him with his tongue like he can't get enough, and he wants Jaskier to come again, just this one more thing, and Jaskier is so, so good, and he doesn't scream this time even though it's a pain like no other—Jaskier comes, silently, shakes through it as his knees tighten around Geralt's shoulders and his cock pulses and he'll sleep forever after this, he deserves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might fuck around with an epilogue, who knows

**Author's Note:**

> come scream at me on my [tumblr](https://dont-you-dare-devil.tumblr.com)


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